


better not to breathe (than to breathe a lie)

by thewingway



Category: Iron Fist (TV), The Defenders (Marvel TV)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Season/Series 01, Psychological Trauma, idk i'm just having feelings, let colleen have actual history 2k20, trauma™
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:53:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23297338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewingway/pseuds/thewingway
Summary: Bakuto may be buried in a grave of concrete and steel, but Colleen knows she won’t be forgotten.
Relationships: Danny Rand/Colleen Wing
Comments: 3
Kudos: 11





	better not to breathe (than to breathe a lie)

**Author's Note:**

> yes i'm still having thoughts about colleen and the hand and no i won't stop
> 
> this brought to you by me finding out that samurai actually have Three swords, and being disappointed that Colleen didn't get to have all of them.... there's so much good good angst potential here
> 
> title is from broken crown by mumford & sons

Colleen doesn’t know what compels her to find all of them again.    


Her katana has been untouched since Midland Circle—something poisonous to the touch, something condemned. She can’t remember if she got all of the blood off of it. It rests on its holder out in the dojo, moved out of the apartment when she couldn’t bear to look at it. Danny hadn’t made any comment as he’d watched her do this, but she remembers him looking sad. 

It’s quiet now—the lights off, just the last of the sunlight filling the dojo as she stands in the middle of the gray mats. Dust has gathered—she could draw a line through it with her finger—and it floats around her as her movements disturb the signs of disuse. When she breathes in, the familiar scent of the equipment is still there, lingering. Some things remain—but it isn’t the same. 

Colleen kneels down before sitting back on her legs, resting her hands in her lap as she looks at the three blades laid out in front of her. All of them sheathed in white, a little yellowed with age and use, but beautiful all the same. A matching set, each hilt bearing her family’s crest. She doesn’t know if she deserves to call the crest  _ hers _ anymore. 

She thinks her grandfather would be ashamed of her if he knew she’d laid her katana down—hidden the other blades away for so long that she can’t remember the last time she held them. All of his training buried and pushed into the back corners of her mind, locked away. Even the thought of his disappointment makes something tug tight in her chest,  _ guilt _ , a stirring of loathing at herself. 

The katana she knows so well—the weight of it in her hands, the soft sing with each swing of the blade, the ring it makes when hitting steel. A part of her, an extension of her, that a part of her wishes she could sever now.  _ I don’t think I’m meant to carry it anymore _ . 

Each blade after is shorter—the second a short sword, only two thirds the length of the katana. The last is little more than a knife, small and lightweight, a few inches longer than the length of her hand. Delicate, deadly. 

She sits in silence and observes them, that itch of loathing and discomfort settling heavy in her chest until it becomes harder to breathe as the stillness wraps around her, smothering. A part of her wants to just put them all away—hide all three of them out of sight again, as they had been for so long. Bakuto never saw the point in the second two blades—they were a  _ samurai’s _ weapons, not hers, she had hardly earned them. 

Still—she can’t bring herself to move. Not until she hears the sound of the locks, glancing over at the door as Danny enters the room. He’d gone to get dinner, but the thought of food makes her stomach turn, and she bites her tongue. 

Danny stops when he sees her, sees the swords laid out in front of her, but if he’s surprised he hides it well beneath a greeting smile. He sets the takeout bag on the floor and toes off his shoes—he never forgets—before crossing the mats to join her. He settles neatly across from her, mirroring her sitting position, examining the blades curiously before he looks up at her. It’s hard, still, to meet his eyes. 

“What are these?” He points specifically to the shorter two, but doesn’t touch. “I haven’t seen them before.”

“I haven’t had them out in a long time,” she explains, reaching forward to grab the middle sword before hesitating. Something still feels wrong about it, a pounding in her head reminding her  _ you’re not a samurai, you failed your grandfather, these shouldn’t belong to you, you have no right to them _ . She remembers when he’d given the swords to her, one by one as he explained their uses and the importance of all of them—she had promised to make him proud. She failed him. Sometimes she’s glad that he can’t see her now, see what she’s become. 

“They’re a set.” An observation, not a question. He still doesn’t try to touch them. 

“They’re meant to be. I never… I never used them like that. They’re a samurai’s set of swords, and when Bakuto took me in, that wasn’t what I was training for anymore.” Every time she says his name out loud her voice hitches and she  _ hates _ it, digs her nails into her palms and tries not to think about blood and steel. 

“I know the katana, but what are the others for?” He hesitates, leaning forward just a little. “And why get them out now?” Now—weeks after moving her katana, after Midland Circle, after nights waking up panicked swearing  _ never again, never again _ . 

“I don’t know,” she says, honestly, biting her lip. “I think I should just put all three of them up, out of sight.” She shakes her head a little, presses her lips together and finally finds it in her to grab the middle blade. Lighter than her katana, a foreign weight in her hands now as she lifts it carefully and holds it out in front of her. The leather sheath is worn soft to the touch, and she wraps her hand around the hilt instinctively. The sensation of the grooves on the hilt against her hand feels familiar, a ghost of a memory captured in a touch. She doesn’t draw it.

“Do they have specific uses?” Danny asks, again, gently encouraging and he seems genuinely interested as he watches her. 

“The katana is—it’s long, it’s for distance. It’s no good up close, so that’s what this is for. It’s called a  _ wakizashi _ .  The blade is similar to the katana, just shorter—it’s meant for close combat fighting only.” Her grandfather had her practicing with this sword before the katana—she’d been too little to hold the larger sword, but this one had fit her perfectly. She has hazy memories of standing out in grass that came up to her waist, the sun glinting off the blade and into her eyes, her grandfather standing at her side coaching her. Sweet summer air with a hint of sharpness to it—the promise of coming fall—and her hair blowing in the wind as it escapes her braid. Her memories of him are fuzzy now, lingering in her head just out of reach, but she can never seem to grab hold of them all. Buried beneath years and years of Bakuto. 

She leans forward a little to pass the sword to Danny who meets her halfway, holding it reverently as he inspects it, looking at the crest on the hilt. 

“It’s beautiful.”

“To carry it alongside the katana is a sign that the wearer is a samurai, and is trained. I never finished my training—what I did with Bakuto was far, far from that. It doesn’t feel right to carry it.” The tugging in her chest grows tighter, and she wishes she had a name for it, a way to explain it. Something that surpasses the heaviest guilt and loathing, and anxiety crawling deeper and deeper into her skin. 

“They were passed down to you from your grandfather—from a  _ line _ of samurai. They’re yours, Colleen, you have every right to carry them.” Danny is kind but cautious as he speaks, and she sees the way he’s watching her, waiting to see if he’s said something wrong. They tread a cautious line now, in the aftermath, partners sparring and testing the other’s defenses.

“That line ended with me.”  _ There _ it is—the root of her failure. Centuries of samurai leading down to her—Colleen Wing, member of the Hand. A direct conflict with her history, her ancestors. A betrayal of everything she was taught, a betrayal of her family. 

“Did it, though? You’re as incredible a fighter as any of them. I’ve never seen someone fight as well with a katana as you. You’ve earned your place, just through different training.” He sets the sword back in its place carefully.

Sometimes she hates how much faith he puts in her—a weight she isn’t ready to carry. 

Colleen doesn’t want to explain this final one to him—doesn’t want to tell him that maybe this is the reason she dug them out, this little blade. That she thinks she should start carrying it alone now for when the inevitable happens. Still, she takes a steadying breath before picking it up, a slight weight in her hands as she turns it over. She’s never drawn this blade. 

“This is a  _ tanto _ . This has one purpose—and one purpose only. I think I’m going to carry it again.” She takes another breath, hesitating. “It’s never to be drawn unless you’re going to use it. In the event of extreme injury, inevitable defeat… being taken by the Hand again….” When she looks up cautiously he seems confused for a moment, until he  _ isn’t _ . She sees the exact moment he realizes where she’s going with this, and he looks a little ill, eyes darkening as he frowns. 

“...It’s to kill yourself.” Her words hang heavy in the silence and she can’t bear the weight of the way he looks at her. 

“Colleen-” 

“I won’t go back, Danny. I can’t go back.” 

She doesn’t know how to explain the severity of her feelings to him—the desperation clawing at her throat when she thinks about them, about them taking her back. Bakuto may be buried in a grave of concrete and steel, but she knows she won’t be forgotten. 

“The Hand is gone, Colleen—buried beneath Midland Circle. You don’t have to do….  _ This _ ,” he gestures towards the  _ tanto _ , still wrapped in her hands. 

The frustration builds up in her chest and spills over as she pushes herself up to her feet, stepping back from him as she turns away. He doesn’t understand—he never  _ will _ . It aches in her chest as she takes a breath before looking back at him, pointing the sheathed blade at his chest. 

“ _ You _ don’t know that. Leaders were at Midland Circle—not every member. I know most of Bakuto’s people weren’t there, they’re still out there, and they know who and  _ where _ I am.” She lowers the tanto, looking away from him. “It’s not over. It won’t ever be over.” 

Danny stays sitting on the floor, but leans forward as he talks, looking up at her. “ _ Leaders _ , Colleen. That means whatever is out there has no one to guide them. They’ll fall apart.” His words are soft, and she knows he’s just trying to help in the only way he knows how to, but it still rubs her the wrong way. It feels like no matter how she tries to stress the situation to him, the words slip off unheard, unprocessed—he can’t seem to grasp the severity of it.

“The Hand isn’t like whatever you grew up in, Danny. You were right—it’s a  _ cult _ . You don’t just….  _ Get out _ , you don’t just walk away. There are consequences. I know there’s people in Bakuto’s group who can step up as leaders, and I’d be naive to say they won’t eventually come for me. That’s the way of it—I didn’t realize that soon enough.” 

“They’re—they’re not going to come after you right now. This seems extreme, you shouldn’t have to contemplate killing yourself to avoid them.” Danny stands up now, but Colleen stays back, shaking her head still. 

“Maybe I shouldn’t have to, but I  _ do _ . Danny, the people who took you in are in… in some other dimension, they  _ can’t _ get to you. But the Hand? The Hand is right here in New York still, and they all know who I am.” The frustration feels like a hand around her throat, a vice, tighter and tighter. She hasn't  _ let _ herself think about this because she hasn’t been ready to accept the reality of it. Here, holding this blade, makes all of it feel real now. 

“I wasn’t exactly  _ unknown _ . Bakuto didn’t keep me hidden. I knew some of the other leaders, in passing, I knew everyone in his group.” She lowers the blade, wrapping both of her hands around it as she looks down, biting her tongue. It isn’t Danny she’s angry with—she thinks he knows this—but it’s hard to not let everything spill over after so long of trying to keep it buried.

“You’re not in this  _ alone _ though, Colleen. I’ll be here. If they try and come for you again you don’t have to face them alone.” 

_ Oh _

She chokes on a bitter sort of laugh and tightens her hands around the  _ tanto _ . Up until Danny she  _ was _ alone. Him being here,  _ staying _ here, still doesn’t feel real—no matter how many times she falls asleep next to him and wakes up the same way. No matter how many times he reassures her that he’s  _ here _ . 

“You shouldn’t  _ have _ to fight a cult with your girlfriend, though,” she comments, relaxing her hands and finally looking up at him with the slightest smile, trying to let go of all of the pressure in her chest. 

“Maybe I  _ want _ to fight a cult with my girlfriend,” he counters, closing the distance between them and wrapping his hands over hers. His are always so warm, a comforting and grounding pressure. 

He steps a little closer and leans down to press his forehead against hers, and she lets her eyes drift shut as she leans into him more. 

“Carry the blade if you feel like you need to, if it’ll bring you peace. Just remember that I’m always going to be here.” He pulls back and presses a lingering kiss to her forehead, a promise. 

The katana and second blade find their place on the holder, which remains out in the dojo untouched. The  _ tanto _ sits on the table next to her side of the bed, stays with her when she leaves—she prays she never has to use it. 

**Author's Note:**

> love being sad!!


End file.
